Roy Rogers liked rough sex, I can only say,
"Oh, Dale, dearest Dale, did you?"
It’s as if I caught my parents on the couch
naked, I know it happened but I can’t imagine
it was anything but perverse, no love lost.
I don’t need to hear what famous men
did with cigars, the stains they left.
How everyone knew (when we didn’t).
No stranger to animal instincts, I have
found solace there, in cowboy hands.
To those who live undamaged,
love themselves enough to know
pain is never reward, I offer blessings
and apology, the urban definition of sin
is good, dirty fun: a truthful lie.
There are so many transgressions,
so little secrecy, and less discretion.
What childhood hero will be outed next?
Did Eisenhower diddle little girls?
Madame Curie do it in the lab?
It’s not the desire to turn a blind eye,
but those pictures were set long ago
before I knew of harsher things.
Let the dead lie in restless peace,
the living keep me busy enough.
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